You Only Say You're Sorry
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
Summary: The past never goes away-- it follows you, hovering, daring you to turn around.
1. I TODAY: Resurfacing

TITLE: You Only Say You're Sorry

AUTHOR: Meredith Bronwen Mallory

FEEDBACK: mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com -- I live for it.

WEBSITE: Work in Progress

PAIRING(S): Lily/Narcissa, James/Severus, Lily/James, (eventually) Harry/Severus, implied Remus/Sirius [whew!]

SPOILERS: Through OotP, though quite possibly AU

RATING: R, to be on the safe side.

DISCLAIMER: Do I look like I'm in charge? Didn't think so. Needless to say, I do not own Harry Potter. I don't even own the couch I'm sitting on! Those lovely witches and wizards belong to J. K. Rowling, Warnes Bros, and assorted other companies. All of these groups have some very scary lawyer people in dark suits, so I am not going to mess with them. The only thing I own is the idea for the story itself.

SUMMARY: The past is never gone-- it follows you, hovering, daring you to turn around.

A/N: First things first; I have to thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope it's worth your while! This is my first HP fic, but definitely NOT my first slash. I'm fascinated by Lily (she's so pretty in PS, too!), and I love how bits and pieces of Harry's unknown past often come back to haunt him. I would dearly love any feedback you might deem to send my way.

Meredith

"Love is a piano dropped from a fourth story window,

And you were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

-ani difranco, "Two Little Girls"

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You Only Say You're Sorry 1/?

by Meredith Bronwen Resurfacing

[Today]

When you get home from Daigon Alley, you tell James you aren't feeling well and need to lie down. That's the quickest way upstairs, without any questions. Your husband's trepidation has grown, rounded itself with your belly-- now, in your ninth month, he regards you with a careful sort of reverence. There's a panic in it too, though, you think-- because this is the kind of magic only witches can perform. He looks at you as if you are a strange vessel, a ship in the night, mysterious and not to be disturbed.

Unknown cargo.

You tell him, yes, you'll be down for late supper-- supper is always late, in Godric's Hollow-- and you definitely don't tell him that, today, you saw Narcissa Black.

(Malfoy now, you remind yourself.)

Those are the words that what out, though. You can feel them, acidic, burning on your tongue-- you want to say them, and you could. It would have no meaning to James. He might say, "Oh?" or "How is she?"-- frowning, trying to put a face with the name-- but nothing beyond that. 

He wouldn't, couldn't, know how caught you feel right now, how solid. You haven't felt this real in a long time, and it's scary. Better to be mist, or else a ball of light, bright and quickly moving. Hard to pin down. 

(A game. A pillow fight, in Narcissa's gauzy, silver-scalloped bed. You roll one way, but she catches you. She can do that-- anticipate you, read your mind, interpret you in ways that only she can. It must be a lot of difficult work, though, this clairvoyance, this translation of your thoughts, because Narcissa is breathing hard. The air from her mouth is warm and sweet, only faintly spoiled, and her palms are flat down against your breasts, her weight pressing you into the bed. Her smile is triumphant, sneaky-- wholly Slytherine, if you believed in that sort of distinction-- and you see the deep green of your eyes reflected in the faint jade of hers. 

"Got you," she says, pressing until you have trouble yourself. It's the truth-- which is odd, because Narcissa so rarely has anything to do with that-- a sort of painful pleasure, or else pleasurable pain. 

She could always be surprisingly viscous.)

Or perhaps that viscousness is not all that surprising. She had so many sharp and pretty teeth. It's Narcissa that makes you feel this way, so physical. No longer a half-phantom, you've lost that important prefix, 'meta'. Slowly, you touch your fingers to your swollen abdomen; gently, gently. The baby stirs-- so perhaps this bothers him too. Part of your problem, you think-- stripping off your cloak, then the emerald maternity smock-- is that Narcissa makes you feel so much. An overdose, almost. People are like potions, each a delicate mix-- not enough is bad, but so is too much. You have to balance perfectly-- ingredients, emotions.

You said that to Severus, once, hunched over alchemy texts in the library. He took so long to answer that you were sure he thought your were being silly, again. 

But then, very quietly, he said, "Yes, I think so, too." You smiled, partly at his kind tone, and partly because you were relieved not to have done something strange again, the kind of something that made James' friends, especially Sirius, peer at you oddly. Not directly, of course, because you should always look at dangerous things from the corner of your eye. It was harder to tell if you had done one of those somethings around Snape-- either he didn't know about them, or didn't care. But then, Severus rarely begrudged you anything, especially when you were right. 

Narcissa, however, would stop sometimes, right in the middle of something, mouth lax with an unborn question. You'd think, 'I did it again', while her eyes would measure you. She never said anything though, which was good. Other people could be so vocal, when you couldn't figure out what you'd done wrong. It hardly seemed to matter, anyway-- despite their silence crowding around you, their eyes asking 'what?'. 

Naked now, you stretch and come to stand before the mirror. Pregnancy has made you vain-- you laugh at yourself-- but you can't help it. You like to look at this composite, this body you share with someone else. You flesh seems to glow, and you feel ripe, like a peach hanging in the moonlight, but also like a fortress. Strong, with battlements. You carry this little creature inside yourself, you give him everything he needs without really thinking about it. It's strange not to always be alone, but also nice, because you know he's safe inside you. The thought of actual birth giving worries you some, these days, because who will protect him-- your baby-- then? 

In the armoire, you find James' invisibility cloak, hung inside out-- and, though he'll ask you about it later, you pull it off the hanger. Your wrap yourself in one smooth motion, like a bird fluttering its wings. Now there is nothing at all in the mirror, and that makes you feel better. Much better, to be liquid rather than solid, amorphous rather than firm. Easier to escape, to slide away from attempts to trap and conform. It's easier to love that way, too-- an uncertainty that makes it all the more certain. 

And you do love James, you do. You know just how much and to what extent. You can love him past his faults, fully aware of what they are. It seems a double miracle that you can be sure he loves you too. Not just something he says, into the spaces between you molecules, but something you _know_. He loves you, despite your lack of form and substance. Maybe he loves you all the more because you can slip through his fingers and James-- darling James!-- doesn't try to hold on. 

You flip the cloak back over, laying down on the peach-colored king-size bed in the middle of the room. A soft "nox" turns warm colors to shadow, and you smooth the laticed-blue lining of the cloak over you. It's mid summer and this garment, with the invisible side turned towards your skin, is the only thing that feels remotely cool. 

A long sigh, under the moon-- "Ahhhh..."

You remember the first time James showed you the cloak. You put it on, inside out, twirled, and he laughed. 

"A shame," you said, "it's so much prettier this way!"

Sirius snorted, "Pretty?" Maybe it was more of a sneer, "Pretty is not the point." His hand was curled around Remus' hip, at the time. 

"Dogs have no taste," Severus said, later, regarding some other crime perpetrated by James' best friend. It must have had something to do with you, the prank, because Snape knew what a precarious position you in were in, careful only to insult the Marauders when the two of you were commiserating. At least-- he refrained when you were around. At the time, he added, "Son of a bitch" and you couldn't help but laugh. Severus didn't, though. He never laughed at his own jokes. 

Safe in the darkness, you curl around your baby. It's easy to imagine you're back in the old house on Darnell Lane, in your bed under the attic eaves. There's even a strong breeze tonight, pushing the tree branches against the window-- a sound that travels across time. At the top of the narrow stairwell, you're utterly removed. Petunia won't bother you, she's afraid of all the dust and shadows. Mom and Dad give you peace too, in case you're studying. It must be hard, they say, you work so hard to get such good scores at Hogwarts. They're proud of the fact you're 'unusual'-- a word that, when said by them, is nothing at all like Petunia's spat pronunciation of 'freak'. But it bothers you, all the same. 

Suspended between years like this, it's perfectly alright to think about Narcissa, even the Narcissa you saw today, standing infront of Madam Malkin's in Daigon Alley. It took you a few minutes to realize she was holding her baby, because you were so focused on her face, which hadn't changed at all. Same pale green eyes, skin pale like the underside of a seashell, platinum hair alight despite the overcast day. She was being cross with a street peddler over something-- Narcissa was always prettiest when she was angry-- ripe red mouth twisted in distaste. That's when you saw the baby, because she tossed her hair and the infant reached for the enchanting strands, much as you had, once. He looked like her, the baby; a boy of course, as Lucius would have nothing else. Or maybe that's just something only you would think. After all, the head Malfoy and his consort both had ivory, lunar glow about them. 

(You're outside, somewhere-- you know this because the sun makes Narcissa so bright that it becomes hard to look at her. "If Lucius had been darker, like his father," she is saying, "I would have been married to the younger son. Mother says its important to coordinate." As if they are clothing, or pieces for a portrait-- not human beings.)

He must be at least two months old, Narcissa's son, because you can't imagine she would forgo the sequestering traditional for mother and child amongst the purebloods. Your own son is due very soon now-- so soon that the midwife insists that you begin keeping to the house come Monday. You really don't mind that the baby is running a little behind, because, being your son, he's probably as vague about time as you are. Was Narcissa annoyed, you wonder, towards the end of her pregnancy? Actually, you can't imagine her having the patience for pregnancy at all, never mind the blood and pain, the smell of new flesh, that would come with it. It seems more likely that this boy-- he looks like a porcelain figurine-- merely appeared in Narcissa's arms, conjured by her desire. 

How long you stood there staring, you don't know. Perhaps it wasn't long at all. Your heart wasn't beating any faster, just harder. Louder, shaking your ribcage. Then, Narcissa looked up, eyes finding you all the way across the street. Her face was perfectly still a china doll mask, but you were somehow privy to the real expression beneath it, even if you couldn't interpret what it was. Your first thought was, 'our telepathy must still be working'-- that strange, thin cord between the two of you-- which was funny, since Narcissa had sworn never to use it again. She must have found a way to turn it off-- even if you never did-- because, if she hadn't, then wouldn't you have seen Lucius' face hovering above, that first horrible night? But there it was, that small tingle at the base of your spine, and you wondered if she heard your voice in her head saying 'Narcissa', the way you heard hers saying 'Lily'. 

You turned then, hurriedly, having no compunction against retreating. You never figured out way some people seemed to think it embarrassing, or degrading-- a strategic withdrawal. There's always another way around, if the most obvious is blocked. You weren't looking where you were going and you stopped when it felt right to, leaning against a cool stone wall, feeling sure you could pass through it. Damn Narcissa-- you might have been able to, if not for her. Instead, you stood there, feeling each breath carefully, wondering why it felt like you weren't getting any air. 

"A mushroom for the pretty mother-to-be?" You almost screamed at that voice, you were so startled. But that would have definitely qualified under one of your strange 'somethings', and you couldn't bare to have the whole alley looking at you. Not when Narcissa had made you visible, once more. As if was, you jumped a little, turning. It was an elderly fruit-merchant-- that was who the voice had belonged to-- and she was looking at you with eyes a bright blue under her wispy grey bangs. She pressed the plump mushroom into your hand-- her own fingers were so cold and boney!-- smiling.

"I can't--" you said, in regards to paying, because you were sure at the moment you'd never find your purse, never mind the face it was still tucked in your right pocket.

"Never mind that," the old witch smiled, "not a bother. You look so pale, child! You should eat. Fainting is not good for the baby." She eyed your full figure, encased in the emerald velvet smock, and nodded to herself. "Best take care, dear." Her smile said she knew you were close, but close to birth giving or close to the edge of tears, you don't know. "You ain't seen nothing yet!"

And you haven't, you haven't seen anything at all yet. You know this with a certainty that has nothing to do with the old woman's sage advice, or with the mushroom you delicately partook of on the way home. Suddenly, your little burrow under the cloak is no longer safe, and neither is the attic of long ago. You're stuck here, and things are changing. Only Narcissa could be an omen of such things-- so radiant and out of place amongst the rest of the wizarding crowd. You'll give birth, but your arms will never be able to protect your son the way the whole of your body was. You'll go back to work at the Ministry of Magic, listening to the hushed conversations, reading reports that don't dare to actually enscript You-Know-Who's name. Shuddering, you hug yourself and, thus, at the same time, your child. Narcissa smiles at you, over her shoulder, a memory that is some how more dangerous because it can not be quantified. 

It occurs to you, horribly, that you still love her.

Even now, when you know better. 

Severus would have several choice things to say about that. 


	2. II YESTERDAY: Worth It

TITLE: You Only Say You're Sorry

AUTHOR: Meredith Bronwen Mallory

FEEDBACK: mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com -- I live for it.

WEBSITE: Work in Progress

PAIRING(S): Lily/Narcissa, James/Severus, Lily/James, (eventually) Harry/Severus, implied Remus/Sirius [whew!]

SPOILERS: Through OotP, though quite possibly AU

RATING: R, to be on the safe side.

DISCLAIMER: Do I look like I'm in charge? Didn't think so. Needless to say, I do not own Harry Potter. I don't even own the couch I'm sitting on! Those lovely witches and wizards belong to J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and assorted other companies. All of these groups have some very scary lawyer people in dark suits, so I am not going to mess with them. The only thing I own is the idea for the story itself.

SUMMARY: The past is never gone-- it follows you, hovering, daring you to turn around.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thank you, as always, for taking the time to read my story. Double 'thank you's go to Laura, ummatti, Brenna, Judy and Alioth for the kind and wonderful feedback. And to Ra-darling and Leigh, my two best slash angels. 

This story will switch back and forth between the present time (July 1980) and Lily's memories of her time at Hogwarts. Present is in second person, the past in third. Hopefully this is neither stupid nor confusing. I owe my soul and several pounds of flesh to my beautiful beta, Ayashi, for all her help. 

Feedback sought with all the desperateness of a whore. I'm not ashamed. Much. ^^;

And now, I will shut up.

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You Only Say You're Sorry 2/?

by Meredith Bronwen Worth It

[Yesterday]

Lily is sitting in first year Arithmancy, forcing her mind to focus on the swiftly moving numbers and alchemical symbols in her textbook. Occasionally, she stops, tapping her quill aimlessly, paused in the task of scribing an answer on her parchment-- but she comes back to task soon enough, jolted out of whatever thought has consumed her, though its hard to say what exactly might distract her from the dusty classroom, or bring her back to it again. It's only her second week at Hogwarts and she is quite intoxicated with it. So strange, to have slipped out from under Petunia and into this new, strange world where her older sister can not follow. Her footing is unsure in her new environment, but she was equally unsure back home, where there were occasions of tea pots pouring tears, or flowers turning into candy. Father turned a blind eye, Petunia sneered, and Mother just smiled-- still enough of a child to appreciate the wonder of such things without worrying about how or why they happened. Like a rainbow or a day both sunny and rainy-- Mother explained-- this things were gifts. Out of the ordinary. Now Lily has been transported to this high castle-school, where there is no such thing as 'ordinary', 'normal', or even 'dull'. She likes it here, she's already decided-- she likes the dorm and the whispering night giggles, even if she doesn't fully trust the other girls. They're kind and they know how to smile, but there always a faint fear prickling the back of Lily's neck, that perhaps they will be tempted to cut off her hair, or dump water on her bed, as Petunia did when they shared a room. The only thing Lily really misses from home is her broom-- not her Quidditch broom, but her regular, non-flying broom. The one she used to sweep the back porch with, smiling in the shade of the morning-glories and climbing ivy; the one that let her know she was a witch, even before she'd ever heard the name "Hogwarts". 

The teacher-- one Madam Lee-- gets up from her desk, robes brushing the stone floor, and that startles Lily back to the present. Licking her dry lips, she applies herself back towards problem nine, nodding and adding her voice to the general murmur of assent when Madame Lee says she must leave the room. 

"Continue working on your assignments, class," the older woman advises, "I will be back in a few moments. Holly," she gestures vaguely to the dour-faced portrait on the far side of the room, "will keep an eye on you and report back to me."

There are more vague mumblings of, "Yes, Madam Lee." Lily looks up long enough to see the teacher's skirts disappear out the threshold, before casting her eyes to the end of the textbook page. 

"Five more problems," she says to herself, both relieved and daunted. The loops and crosses of the common elements take a long time to make with a quill, since she isn't used to using one, and they look sloppy anyway. Briefly, she longs for a pencil. 

The hiss of discontent starts out soft, but grows quickly. Like a wave, it over takes the Gryffindor side of the room, becoming all-out grumbling. Lily frowns, looking around for the source of discontent, but all she can see is the lanky Slytherin boy making his way towards the front of the room to hand in his parchment. She looks down at her own, half-completed assignment as feels a prang of admiration. 

"Show off," someone says, a stage whisper that everyone can hear. The boy turns around, head bent as eyes on the floor as he starts to make his way back to his seat. 

"Hey! Why don't you give the rest of us a hand, here!?" This from another Slytherin, despite the fact that instructions to work individually have been scrawled clearly on the board since the beginning of class.

"He thinks he's so much better than we are."

The boy doesn't say anything, though his gaze is a venom pure and distilled, and pretty soon a waded bit of scroll is winging across the room. It makes a dull sound as it hits its target on the shoulder, others flying to join it.

"Are you deaf?" jeers someone sitting in the row behind Lily. 

"Are you mute?" someone else suggests. Now it's a small book, something from Divinations, being thrown.

"Say something!" a cry from the seat next to Lily, "Say something, you freak!" Lily's mouth is hanging open, because she's heard that _word_, that word she never expected to hear at Hogwarts. Now the boy does look up-- his eyes are black and bottomless, face pale as a the moon and framed by hair perfectly opposite in color. His mouth twists, and he continues to try to make his way back to his desk, pushing past the legs and arms stuck out to bar his way. A Gryffindor boy-- one with round glasses and messy hair-- leans over towards the Slytherins, knocking the other boy's books on to the floor. They scatter on the stone tile in utter disarray. 

Without thinking-- because, what is there to think about?-- Lily is out of her seat, kneeling between the neat rows, ignoring the slight kicks of shoes and rain of scrap parchment. The boy pauses, crouched, staring at her as they both reach for the same book. He snatches it first, he doesn't trust her-- she's seen that same, frightened look on wild deer-- and she doesn't know why. Shrugging, she goes to collect his quill, which is also on the floor, resting against the leg of one of the desks. Her hand is almost crushed by the boot that comes down, and she hears the feather snap. It's Sirius Black-- she's heard his name sighed by besotted first year girls-- that's staring down at her, smirking, offering her the broken quill.

"Looky, Snivellus has got a girlfriend!" he crows. Lily turns away, leaving him holding the ruined plume. She's standing protectively in front of the boy-- 'Snivellus'? that can't be his real name-- even though she's several inches shorter than he.

"Just stop it!" she cries, seeing in her mind's eye herself, Petunia's friends pulling away her coat, tossing it where the streetcars might pass. Holly, peering at them stiffly from within her gilt frame, gives nothing but a hum of disapproval. The wads taper off, not of Lily's doing; she knows that for sure, it's more the sound of footsteps, out in the hallway. Briefly, she cradles the gathered books to her chest, stacking them neatly, before holding them out to the boy. 'Snivellus' eyes her for a moment, then snatches them back, raising his chin as he looks around the room. Then he turns-- rather gracefully, Lily thinks-- and stalks off to his seat. 

"Lee's coming!" someone hisses as Lily slides back onto her bench. The messy-haired Gryffindor climbs up on his desk, to the delighted giggles of the girls around him, brandishing his wand.

"Expulsum!" The wads and books on the floor seem to vanish in an invisible wind.

"Way to go, James!" Sirius applauds as James jumps back down in his chair, making a mock little bow. 

So, all is quiet and orderly when Madam Lee reenters and, though Lily is sure Holly will tell all, she still can't help but feel sick to her stomach. Listlessly, she plods through the rest of the problems not really caring when the numbers refuse to cooperate. She's more concerned with gazing across the classroom, trying to catch the boy's eye. She wants him to know it's alright, even if she's not really certain of that at all. 

The word 'freak' echoes loudly in the classroom, though no one else seems to notice.

It's hard to catch up with him in the hallway, after class. He really is tall for his age, and his long legs keep an impressive stride. She has to run to even keep pace with him, once they're side by side. For a moment or two, they continue in silence, before he seems to realize she isn't going to fall out of step with him.

"What do you want?" he asks tersely, or as tersely as one can with such a pleasant, youthful voice. Lily blushes, because for a minute she really did wonder whether or not he could speak, and she feels bad. 

"You don't have a quill now," she rummages in her bag, producing one of her own. "I have an extra, if you need one." The color on her cheeks only intensifies as he eyes the glitter-encrusted plume. "I'm sorry it's all sparkly, but at least its not pink."

"I don't need one," he says, turning quickly. She's out of breath by the time she catches up with him again. He glares at her through the curtain of his think, shoulder length hair. "Why are you following me?"

"What's you name?" she asks instead, smiling brightly, to show him she comes in peace.

"It's rude to answer a question with another question."

"Oh." Lily's smile becomes apologetic-- it's just another one of those things she didn't know. "Well, I'm going to potions, too!"

He rolls his eyes, "So run along then."

"My name is Lily Evans," she chirps instead, having long practice with going around seemingly immovable obstacles. 

"How wonderful for you." He really doesn't seem to have much of an expression on his face all. "Sounds positively Muggle."

"Why, yes!" She's pleased now, because they seem to be easing into a real conversation. She is unaware that he has insulted her, or at least attempted to. "My parents are both Muggles. So's my sister, Petunia," she can't help but make a face, "and all the rest of my family, I suppose. Mum was really pleased though, when I got my owl. We're Londoners, born and bred, and this is my first time away from home. Where are you from?" 

Now he stops dead, so that Lily actually stumbles past him a bit. "Near Bellsmede," he blinks, as if uncertain as to why he's bothering to answer her. 

"I've heard it's pretty, there," she replies pleasantly. "And your name?"

"Snape." It's so clipped, she can't make it out. "Now, will you leave me alone?"

"But we're almost to Potions!" They're walking again, though she doesn't remember when. 

Snape makes a snorting noise, "Look, I don't need a protector. Or a shadow. Or a fluffy little... whatever you are."

"I don't know what I am," Lily admits blithely, "I've been trying to figure it out for a while." After a moment, she adds quietly, "Not a freak."

"No," there is genuine surprise in his void-dark eyes, "you're not. And neither am I."

"Us not-freaks ought to stick together!" 

"Stupid girl!" Any softening of Snape's tone is gone now, "Why do Gryffindors always think they need to rescue everybody?"

"But the Gryffindors were throwing things at you!" Lily protests, confused by these frequent house distinctions, "The whole class was." 

"Doesn't matter," he says, even though they both know it does. "I... why are you bothering me?"

"Am I bothering you?" He seems to find it funny that she's only just considered this, though he doesn't laugh. "I'm sorry," she says sincerely, bowing a little, books clutched to her chest, backing away. She smiles again, "I hope you have a nice rest-of-the-day!" Then she's off, sort of skipping, tripping over her robes. 

"Wait... Lily!" Her surprise is reflected in Snape's eyes as she turns around. He coughs. "My name is Severus."

"Severus Snape," Lily tries, nodding her approval. "Please don't let them bother you, Severus. I'll see you in Potions!" 

And Severus Snape stands there, puzzled, watching her flit off like some crazy butterfly, trying to make himself feel annoyed. 


	3. III TODAY: Internity

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You Only Say You're Sorry

by Meredith Bronwen Internity

[Today]

You dream.

The first part of the dream of Narcissa; it's nice that she appears outright, instead of lurking vaguely behind some white curtain, indistinct outlines shifting like the word 'ambush'. She knows you have been waiting for her, expecting, and she is always sure to indulge you, when she can.

She's braiding your hair, softly, in the intricate way that requires magic to hold it in place. It's not something you ever learned, this offhanded braiding spell, though of course Narcissa's mother taught it to her as soon as she was old enough to chant. Now she can do it without even thinking about it-- but then, that can be said of a lot of things Narcissa could and did do. 

You watch her face in the mirror before you-- part of a vanity, white-- and realize you're in her room. The one that was _hers_, not shared, at Cold Stone. Such a strange thing to call a house, even a 'manor'-- it made you chill, thinking about it. As if you'd touched the name. Her hands are slicked with rosemary water-- to make your hair smell good-- and she wipes them on a satin towel, before leaning forward. She reaches around you, a loose embrace, a very casual touching, in order to grab for the hand mirror. 

"What do you think?" she asks, angling reflective pane so you can see the intricate weavings of your copper hair. You aren't looking at that, though it is lovely; you're looking at Narcissa, behind you, pale and perfect, and at her satisfied smile. 

"Beautiful," you say. She puts the hand mirror down, and now her face is right next to yours, cheek to cheek. Hands, cool and light, run down along your body, the sides of your breasts. It goes right through you, this touching-- she traces your ribs, as if plucking at a harp. Her eyes are on the reflection, too; she likes to watch both sides. Your skin seems to sigh 'Narcissa', willing and eager, your head tipped back. For the first time, you think there might be something to the Houses, because she is definitely serpentine, twining about you. Snakelike.

Then, just like that-- as was her way-- she is gone. A breeze or a word can displace her, make her slide, leviathan, back into her milky waters. It's not just a dream time mechanism; it's real life. 

Maybe you get up to go look for her-- you don't know-- because now you're standing far away, on a high dune. Perhaps this is not so surprising. Like all precious, dangerous things, Narcissa requires questing after. The wind is hot in this impossible, Sahara land, and the sand is actually that childhood crayon-color-- "goldenrod". The sky is blue above you, oh-so impossibly blue; you stand in the sun and the heat, and you hear James screaming. 

Where is he? You can't tell. All this endless wasteland echoes, moans, and you can't see him anywhere within the confines of the horizon. But you _can_ hear him; his raw voice is like a claw around your heart, squeezing. 

And there is Severus, over there, atop another impossibly high mountain of sand. You call out to him-- he's dark against the sky-- but what do you expect him to do? Help James? Once, he might have, though whether for James' sake or for yours, you don't know. But now? You don't know. He's so far away; even in the dream, he is much closer than in reality. You can't bridge it, this rift-- you don't understand it's dimensions, and when you gained a husband, you never imagined you would loose a friend. After all, those last years at Hogwarts where such a careful high wire act, the cord cutting into your feet. On one side Severus, on the other side James and his friends. You know what they said about you, but this balancing act had not so much to do with love and more to do with friendship. And with betrayal, though you are still trying to figure out exactly who was betrayed, and why.

Here is Severus, now, in your dream world, and he is closer than he has been in a very long time. What will you say to him, to bring him back from the edge-- this edge you sense but can not be certain of? Severus is so precarious, and James is still screaming. He's not watching you, anyway, your old, dark friend. His gaze is off in the distance, on the small and lonely figure of a boy who makes his way with childish, faltering steps through the dunes. He will stumble and fall, this child-- there's really no way around that-- and you are too far away to help. 

But Severus is closer, he can make it there in time to aid the child. Somehow, you can see him lifting the boy, at once terse and tender. "Get on with it," Snape would say, giving the little boy strength all the same. Absurdly, this relieves you. They will be okay, Severus and this boy you know but don't, even if you-- turning towards the now dark horizon where James is in pain-- are not.


	4. IV YESTERDAY: Loyalties

YOU ONLY SAY YOU'RE SORRY

4/?

BY: Meredith Bronwen Mallory

PAIRINGS: Lily/Narcissa, Remus/Sirius, eventual Harry/Sev

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the fourth chapter of my Harry Potter femslash fic, "You Only Say You're Sorry". Previous chapters can be found at Comments and feedback are lusted after without shame. Thank you so much for your time, and I do hope you enjoy this. ^_^

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You Only Say You're Sorry 4/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

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IV. Loyalties

[Yesterday]

It's quiet in the Gryffindor common room, after dinner, and it takes Lily a while to realize that this near-silence is because of her. It is aimed at her, sly glances from the other first years, level looks from older students and whispers between the grades. A reproach she can feel, but doesn't understand, as she sits on the wide window seat, talking with Arthur Weasley about automobiles. 

Arthur is so gangly and foppish-- though such a word should probably be used on older men-- and his nearly-orange hair sticks out at every angle. Lily finds him to be rather adorable, sort of like Sunshine, the hamster in her kindergarten class. At the same time, he has the ability to make her just a little nervous-- perhaps more self-conscious than apprehensive, but it is there. He thinks Muggles are *fascinating, and is quite content to listen to her as she goes on about the things that make her homesick; the telly, being able to give her mother a ring, soda pop. He nods in all the right places and asks her for details, but after a while, she begins to feel rather like something under a microscope. Now, look class-- _(and the children squint their eyes, looking down the mirrored tubes)-- _eww! what is that?

Right now, Arthur is saying how he wants to own a car someday-- blue maybe, or green; he can't decide.

"Silly," says Molly Weatherby, off in the corner wrestling with Transfiguration homework. "What would you do with one?"

"Drive it, o'course," Arthur preens, and Molly shakes her head at Lily, as if they are both privy to some joke. 

"Men," scoffs Molly, with the authority of a child who knows absolutely nothing of what she's talking about, but has heard it from Mum. 

"You can take Molly for a ride with you," Lily suggests, smiling at the third-year girl, having seen just enough movies to have some vague idea of the word 'date'. "You can drive slow past a moonlit lake and play something by the Beatles." She means to tease him a little, or else to replace the joke Molly thought she understood, but Arthur just nods attentively, as if she has just described an important ritual. She is conscious, very conscious, of the sheer alien nature of their lives to one another. Aware, painfully, that she is as strange to him as he is to her, though perhaps not quite so wonderful. 

"Which song?" asks Arthur, who can not see that Lily's face has turned to a sort of brittle glass. Does he even know what she's talking about? Maybe he thinks the Beatles really _are_ bugs; maybe, in this world, there are insects that can sing, because the Mandrakes certainly can cry.

"'Can't Buy Me Love'," Lily replies, because he is waiting for an answer, and she doesn't know how to tell him she was only kidding. Petunia has a record of that song, though she doesn't play it often-- the other side is 'Day Tripper', which is more to her style. Arthur blinks expectantly, and Lily begins to hum, just a little, off key. Her voice is very soft and stark, as illustration, against the stone chamber walls. "Can't buy me lo-ove, everybody tells me so," she sings, not looking up anymore, but rather at her feet. At her black Mary Janes, scuffed a little-- not even proper witch's shoes-- swinging back and forth as she kicks her legs. "Can't buy me lo-ove..."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Arthur!" Molly cries, "Don't pester Lily so much! Here," she cleans off the table next to her, "you have homework, too!" Her smile is wide and toothy, becoming somewhat apologetic as her gaze rests on Lily. Dear Molly-- it occurs to Lily that the Weatherby girl often pops up like that, coming to her rescue when the petri dish becomes as tad too small.

"Stupid Muggle-born," someone says, and Lily blushes, because they heard her sing-song and she doesn't have a very good voice. "You ought to forget about all that rot-- who needs it?"

"I like the Beatles, and car rides," Lily mutters softly, though really she only likes long ones, in the summer, when her family goes to the beach. Once Petunia falls asleep, Lily likes to roll the window down; the salty wind gets in her hair, and in her mouth, tasting like freedom. 

"Muggles," someone else spits, mockingly, "who needs _them_? Anyway, you can always Apparate."

The sentence is barely finished before a girl nearby says, in almost a growl, "My Mum's a Muggle! You just watch it. With that sort of talk, maybe you ought to have been in Slytherin!"

"Me, a snake?" now both students are on their feet, a ring of friends scooting closer around them, to get a better look. "You want to come over here and say that?" There's a general push forward, and Lily unconsciously slides back on her ledge, as if to dissolve into the wall. 

"Hush up, the lot of you!" Molly says firmly, her accent thicker with the anger on it, or maybe that's just annoyance. "We're all _Griffindors_ 'ere, never mind anything else. Takes all kinds, mind you." Lily just sits where she is, teeth hard on her tongue, because she she doesn't want to say to Molly that they weren't all Gryffindors-- brave and loyal and true-- this morning in Arthimancy. Then, they were just a bunch of people throwing things at someone, and a whole bunch of other people not doing a thing. "And," the third-year girl adds with an air of authority, not so much queenly as matronly. "We'll all be a lot of failing Gryffindors if we don't study for Transfiguration."

That seems to return things to their regular balance-- or at least drag gazes back to textbooks, instead of the undrawn line they're supposedly choosing sides of. For a few minutes, Lily is carefully still, making herself invisible. There's a trick to it, and she needs to concentrate, because right now all she wants to do is go upstairs and crawl under her covers-- all the way under, like a mouse safe in its hole. It's a long, narrow way up; not as long and precarious as her attic bedroom, but it will do. A step away, she's so relieved, it must be that she looses focus, for suddenly there is a hand on her shoulder, jerking her back into the land of things that can be seen. 

"Hey." 

It's the boy from Arithmancy-- not Severus, but the jaunty boy, with the easy posture and the too-certain smile. He's peering at her, brown eyes bright behind carelessly angled glasses. Lily blinks several times, on the off chance it will cause him to vanish, or else return her to that dimension behind sight. But his hand is still on her arm, a terrible anchor, and it occurs to her that her little tricks will not work here as they did at home. Here, you really can be invisible-- it's not just a state of mind. 

"Hey," he says again, as if to make sure she's heard him, and after the word he leaves his mouth open a little, clearly expecting something.

She says, "James", because the name has just sifted, whole, to the surface of her mind. Said with Sirius' voice, thick with camaraderie. 

"That's right." His smile brightens without a single twitch of muscle. "And you're Lily." 

_(Lily, yes, of Lily and Petunia-- two opposing flowers created by a woman called Rose. A whole history of blossoms, littering the English countryside; Iris, Violet, Lilac, and one Columbine, who was burned, ages ago, for a witch in some Northern county. Only now does it occur to Lily that she really might have been-- a witch. Caught in the act, found out-- as if she'd been lost somehow. Tonight, Lily will dream of the fire licking at her heels.)_

But right now, this James is looking at her, waiting, and all she can do is nod because her throat is as dry as underbrush in the heat of summer. The word "witch", the word "muggle"-- the whole thing catches, and oh, does it burn.

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(Petunia says, snidely as Lily is sprawled on the playground concrete, "You'll get yours someday.")

"I wanted to apologize," says James, which makes her look at him more closely, and at herself, the reflection of her own eyes in the lenses shielding his. What does he have to be sorry for, she wonders, back there behind the glass? Is he protected back there, or trapped? She can't tell; and because she can't tell, she stays quiet. This is something that annoys people-- but she only remembers that later, of course-- this silence. If she doesn't have anything to say, she doesn't put words out to fill up the space. Instead, she waits for the right ones, and sometimes it takes a while. 

"For earlier today, in Arithmancy," he elaborates. "I'm sorry if you got hit. I wasn't aiming for you."

"Oh," thinks Lily, and then realizes that she's said it out loud. His grip on her arm tightens momentarily, before vanishing altogether. He looks sheepish. "You didn't hit me."

"Well," James nods, as if he was somehow right all along, "good, then."

"Will you apologize to Severus?" she asks, realizing a moment too late that he was about to turn away. 

"Snivellus?" his turn to blink, now, and she winces. Does he know that those glasses refine his gaze, focus it unbearably? Like sunlight through a magnifying glass. She tried that once, out of curiosity, frightened when the green patch of grass began to smolder. Small things can be so dangerous. James wears his perplexed expression the way he seems to wear everything else-- with a sort of graceless charm. 

"You were aiming for him," she murmurs softly, a mere statement of fact, not at all confrontational-- perhaps that makes it worse. 

He's frowning in earnest now, with all his fresh, boyish face, "Well, yeah." There's something behind his eyes, though, in the dark ink of the pupils. Unconsciously, she leans a little closer, as if this will make it more clear. Lily knows this tone he is using-- she's heard it before, on others-- it's a careful, disinterested sort of annoyance. He feels perfectly justified, says the tone, he does not question himself.

"Alright," says Lily, coming to some only half-conscious realization. She turns, filled with something too chilled to be relief. 

"Why should he?" 

And-- stop! She does this perfectly, like a delicate mechanism, even if she doesn't want to. It's not a good idea to walk away from people when they're talking to you; it makes their voices want to follow you, chase you down. It's Sirius speaking, of course, sliding off the arm of the couch with an animal's bulky grace. Remus-- the fairer boy he'd been sprawled next to-- remains where he is, watchful, as if tensed to intervene. Lily offers him the barest tilt of her lips, quick so no one else can see. His old, childish gray eyes flash briefly, and he looks so tired-- the stance of someone baring the mantle 'peacekeeper'. Then, Lily dutifully raises her eyes to the strange lines and colors that are Sirius Black. "Why the hell should he apologize to bloody Snape, of all people?"

"It's his business, not mine," Lily replies truthfully, "I was just asking."

"You don't get to, do you?" Sirius peers down at her, over James shoulder. "That guy is bad news. You helped him! He's Slytherin!"

"But he wasn't." It's said softly, mostly because Lily is following her own train of logic and her attention is focused inward. 

Disbelief. "What?"

"Until a two weeks ago, he wasn't anything," she raises her hands, as if to hold up the idea, to argue and illustrate it, "before we were sorted, I mean. And I wasn't Gryffindor, either. I don't feel any different." 

"Merlin's spawn!" Sirius snorts now, tossing his chin-length mane, "Did you _know_ him two weeks ago?"

"No."

"So it doesn't count!" While there is something very definite and strange in the way James is making his face blank now, Sirius doesn't notice, leaning on him while he condescends to explain. "Look, missy."

"Lily," James corrects.

A roll of ebony eyes. "_Lily_." He moves to stand in front of her, blocking the stairs, "Snivellus is bad news, trust me. His whole family's been throwing their lot with Dark Wizards since anyone can remember. If you're not careful, he'll hex you or turn you into something awful." 

Lily can feel her eyes narrowing and bites into her lip. She thinks about her thick volumes of fairy tales, old leather bindings trust worthy and worn-- about the feel of them in her hands. This keeps her from balling up her fists; because, how can you tell? In the stories, the shining golden princess would cast her light and eat away at the witch until there wasn't anything but shadows. And Lily knew, even then, that she'd never sleep like a peaceful statue, never bite into an apple without thinking twice, never let a handsome stranger help her up onto his white steed. She knew, before anyone else told her, that she was in the ether with the witch. 

It's as if Sirius can see that she is not convinced, but he doesn't back down-- his stance shifts, and Lily knows that every eye in the room is on her back. The gazes are crawling down her spine, gathering at the base, and James seems to have stepped a little closer to her for some reason. 

"Besides," Sirius waves a hand, as if polishing his argument, "he's a pouf. His hair's so long-- you can tell."

"Your hair is long," Lily points out, and starts to walk around the taller boy. 

There's sputtering, "Are you trying to--"

"Siri..." that must be the Lupin boy, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa.

"Leave her alone, Sirius," James says pleadingly, and if Lily were to turn around, she'd see him glance at Molly Weatherby, but she's not paying attention. Instead, she plants her gaze right in the middle of Black's forehead, tilts her chin up and spreads her feet apart as if she's just picked up a sword. 

"You're wrong about Severus," she says, quiet and clear, "you're just wrong. Now." She imagines she's wearing armor, just like when Petunia's shoving becomes too unbearable, and she has to push back. "Let me pass." 

She doesn't wait, though, she darts around him, too lithe for her imaginary chain mail and helmet. Up the stairs, one two three and loosing count. His voice follows her, of course, but she closes the door on it, leaves it knocking with the words, "Boy, is she dense." Off come her black robes, her skirt, her knickers and her tie-- watch them fly! She tosses them gracelessly towards her trunk, sits on her bed in her panties and her little pink silk shift, eyes on the plain 'muggle' photo of her family. She keeps it pinned to the lid of her trunk, along with a picture of her house and the fairy prints she cut out of magazines. Mother, Father and Petunia at the train station, on platform 9 3/4-- one of those instant snapshots that she had to blow on for the colors to come up. Mom looks enchanted, Father unreadable, and Petunia just as cross as always. 

_("Better the devil you know." Who said that? Father, on one of the rare occasions Mum let him have more than one drink.)_

Sliding under her covers, Lily pulls them all the way up over her head, cheek on the pillow while her fingers trace the beautiful, willowy timber of her wand. 

"This isn't going to make things any easier," she tells it quietly, because Professor McGonagall says that your wand is a part of you, and Lily thinks it ought to be informed. Be ready. She closes her eyes and settles into her bones.

And Sirius is still wrong, because she's not dense. She's not solid at all, but rather like a vapor-- she rises from her marrow, up and up and up, until no one can reach her.

No one at all. 


End file.
